The sun had barely risen when the three travelers arrived at the gates of Magadha.
They wore no ornaments, no royal banners. Just plain garments and staffs. To the guards, they looked like wandering Brahmanas—spiritual seekers, not threats. But their eyes told another story. In them were storms barely contained.
Bhima's muscles tensed with each step, his silence heavier than armor. Arjuna walked like a shadow that had learned to strike. And Krishna… Krishna looked as if the city already belonged to him.
They were brought to Jarāsandha without suspicion. The king of Magadha, towering and broad-shouldered, greeted them with royal formality. His eyes, however, were sharp with instinct.
"You are not Brahmanas," he said.
Krishna smiled. "No. But we came in peace, with purpose."
Jarāsandha studied them. "Then say your names."
Krishna stepped forward. "I am Krishna of Dwaraka. This is Arjuna of the Pandavas. And this is Bhimasena, son of Vayu."
Jarāsandha laughed. "So the fire has come to my door."
His voice echoed through the marble chamber. "Why are you here?"
"To end your reign," Krishna said calmly. "And to free the kings you've imprisoned."
Jarāsandha's face grew still. "You come to my court and threaten me with three men? My armies could burn your cities before your bodies fall cold."
Krishna's voice never rose. "We did not come to fight armies. We came for a duel. You choose your opponent."
Jarāsandha's eyes moved from Krishna to Arjuna… and then settled on Bhima.
"This one. The bull of your herd."
Bhima stepped forward, smiling for the first time in days.
The arena was chosen—wide, empty, silent.
No guards. No spectators. Just two warriors. One born of wind. The other born of magic.
Jarāsandha, though mortal, had been born from two halves of dead flesh joined by a rakshasa. His body was fused by unnatural means—his strength doubled, his limits erased. He had never been defeated.
The duel began.
The earth shook under their first clash. Mace struck mace. Fist struck bone. Blood flew, but neither backed down.
Hours passed.
Sweat mixed with dust. Skin broke. Bones strained. But the battle did not end.
Days passed.
Each morning, they rose again.
Neither warrior begged. Neither warrior broke.
And on the fourteenth day, Krishna called out to Bhima. He picked a twig from the ground and snapped it in two—lengthwise, not across.
Bhima understood.
He lunged.
Jarāsandha charged.
Bhima caught him by the waist, lifted him high into the air, roared like thunder—
—and ripped him apart, tearing him from groin to skull, splitting the fused flesh down the center. Blood rained. The ground drank it.
The king of Magadha screamed once—then never again.
Krishna stepped forward and placed a hand on Bhima's shoulder. "It is done."
The prison doors were opened. Eighty-six kings stepped into sunlight, their faces hollow but their spines straight.
They bowed before Krishna and Bhima.
"You are free," Krishna said. "And now, you are witnesses."
When word reached Indraprastha, Yudhishthira sat long in silence.
The path was now clear.
No force remained to challenge his right to sovereignty.
The kings of Bharatvarsha began to send messages of allegiance. Some sent tribute. Some sent swords. All acknowledged the same truth:
The Rajasuya could now begin.
And the throne of emperors was waiting.